


Wasteland

by yeaka



Series: A Honeycomb Tree [3]
Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Half-Mirrorverse, M/M, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-14
Updated: 2013-08-14
Packaged: 2017-12-23 11:07:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/925652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Empire rewards Keenser’s service with a companion Keenser grows attached to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wasteland

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own Star Trek or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

It’s a lonely place, this station. Keenser doesn’t mind so much. He didn’t function well with others on his planet—too different. Now that he’s out here, in the Empire, he’s done better. But friends leave for other worlds, and more and more people are deemed redundant, unnecessary, pulled away for other things while Lieutenant Keenser handles everything. The Empire has entirely too much faith in him. 

They tell him he’s brilliant and they appreciate his contribution, but they keep him in an outpost on ugly, cold Delta Vega. Things break down, and he has to struggle to fix them, and he sends a brief complaint—he can’t run _everything_.

Later, he sends the remnants of his transwarp theorem, because without extra hands around here, he knows he’ll never have time to finish it. He values the Empire, anyway—they took him away from his planet and let him climb the ranks. Let someone else finish it. Let the Empire still benefit. He doesn’t expect much. 

He gets a communication a week later full of thanks, and the responding admiral promises him a present on the next shipment of supplies. Keenser expects and hopes for several dozen kegs of Romulan ale. It makes the coffee more bearable. 

When the cargo ship comes, he signs off for the parts he ordered. They’ve provided a few extra things, things he could conceivably use to test his theorem, but like he told them, he doesn’t have _time_. They give him enough missions. He does what he can. 

Then he gets the usual three barrels of ale, and then the Empire officer parades out his present: a human. 

Keenser’s so shocked at first that he drops his wrench right on his foot, his natural armour preventing any pain. The officer—a Grazerite—tugs the human down the ramp and through the loading doors by his arm, right down in front of Keenser. The human’s wearing a thick coat and some pants and a lopsided hat, glancing around the place absently. The Grazerite hands over an extra PADD and pushes the human forward, explaining, “The Empire is giving you a personal servant as thanks for your exemplary service, apparently.” And then there’s some muttering under the breath—jealousy. “You have to sign for him.”

Keenser’s hand is numb as he signs the PADD. A personal servant. He wasn’t expecting that. The human stands next to him, hands in the jacket’s pockets. 

Grumbling, the Grazerite turns and heads back up the ramp. Keenser goes to shut the loading dock’s door, and the human shouts suddenly, “Good riddance, yeh good fer nothin’ shite!” Keenser nearly jumps out of his skin, whirling round. It’s been silent around here so long that he’s forgotten the sounds of sentient shouting. Looking slightly abashed but not at all sorry, the human shrugs and says, “Sorry.”

Keenser walks up to the servant again. He looks the servant up and down, trying to be confident that a human wouldn’t recognize Roylan blushing for what it is. The human is at least a head and a half taller than him. The human looks sturdy. Soft, and smooth. Attractive, in an exotic sort of way.

Keenser’s not sure how he’s supposed to address it. So he grunts, “Name?”

“Montgomery Scott.” Keenser’s nose wrinkles. Too long. But he memorizes it. Why do other species have more than one name? Strange. After a minute, the human says, “You can call me Scotty, I guess? Some do.” Scotty’s voice is strange, but easier to understand now that he’s less agitated. The first shout nearly went over Keenser’s head. 

Keenser still doesn’t know what to do with... Scotty. What are servants for in the Empire? Help on lesser things so Keenser can do the important work like his theory, obviously. And maybe _that_ , Keenser knows, but he’s not going to demand _that_ , even if Scotty does look nice and lean. The jacket is hanging loosely off his shoulders, skin bare underneath. If he were naked, he would’ve retained freezing damage just from being exposed to the elements for that short period of time. Keenser thinks low-ranking people in the Empire are normally shoved about naked.

Keenser tries not to think about that. He could use an assistant. Is this one smart enough? Keenser walks over to one of the boxes left by the officer, and he picks it up, needing it nearer his main station. Scotty follows him, picking up a different box. At least manual labour is a help.

Scotty talks while he does it. 

Scotty talks a lot. Or maybe Keenser’s just not used to it, so it feels like more than usual. Scotty asks about this planet, gets no answers, decides he hates it, talks about Earth, complains about his first employer and the last one who sent him off, and then about the cargo ship officer. At first, Keenser just has Scotty help him with menial tasks around the station—repairing vents and fixing computer errors and so on. 

It quickly becomes obvious that Scotty’s smart, and Scotty’s able to help out with more important things. He even seems adept at engineering, which he announces proudly before rerouting a console that’s acting up. While he does that, Keenser has more time for more important things. Like that transwarp theory. He thinks he understands why the Empire gave him a personal servant, but it still feels... strange. He’s honoured.

He never had a pet when he was little. He’s not sure how he’ll do with one, but he vows to take care of Scotty.

The first night when they have dinner, Keenser feeds Scotty a plate of Andorian chocolate. Scotty eats more than Keenser would in a week. He drinks a large chunk of the ale mixed into coffee, but after his hard work that day, Keenser thinks he’s earned it. He says thanks.

He sleeps in the bunk below Keenser’s in the tiny living quarters, the other two beds against the opposite wall still empty. This is a work facility, and not one of luxury. Scotty complains about the stiff beds, but he falls asleep surprisingly quickly. His breath becomes deeper, and he makes a strange noise—snoring. 

Keenser looks over the edge of his bed. There aren’t curtains on the window, and the starlight washes dimly over Scotty’s face. He looks peaceful. He looks warm.

On the third night, he drinks too much and becomes rowdy and lazy, and he falls asleep on the floor in the middle of their workstation, so after that, Keenser doesn’t let him drink so much. Scotty grumbles about it.

But Scotty listens to Keenser for the most part, though he complains in ways Keenser’s sure non-rank officers aren’t supposed to. He’s... cute... when he complains. Once, he wakes up with his odd human hair sticking up, and he yawns and says it’s just bed-head. Keenser grunts, “Cute.”

And Scotty stammers, “Wha’?! I am not ‘cute’! I don’ think you know what that word means, laddie.” His accent starts strong with embarrassment, then slips back into coherency by then end. Keenser’s sure his universal translator’s working. He knows exactly what that word means.

After five days, Keenser gets a remote communication from the Empire. The admiral he talked to before asks, “Do you like your present?”

Keenser looks over at Scotty, sitting in the corner, rewiring a malfunctioning console. Scotty’s grumbling under his breath, but his thin, talented fingers are moving quickly. Keenser briefly imagines what his fingertips feel like—probably nothing like Keenser’s. Keenser looks back at the admiral and says, “Yes.”

“Good. It’s our hope that you can continue to work on that warp theory of yours. I can’t tell you what a benefit it would be to the Empire to have that. We’re happy to send you anything you need to expedite the process.”

Keenser says, “Scotch.” Because while he prefers ale, he’s heard Scotty mention it a few times. He hears something metallic hit the floor behind him, and when he glances over, Scotty’s dropped a pair of pliers and is looking at him in surprise. 

The admiral laughs, even though Keenser’s entirely serious. “Will do. Thank you for your hard work, Lieutenant Keenser.” The console clicks off.

Keenser gets back to work, enjoying the sounds of Scotty working behind him. Sometimes, it’s good not to be alone.

After a couple of minutes, Scotty starts talking again, and Keenser finds the sound of his voice oddly soothing. Everything about Scotty flows in a way Keenser didn’t understand before: natural and not... hard like a rock, like Roylans are all over. When they take a break to drink hot coffee together, the steam puts little beads of sweat all along Scotty’s skin. Scotty says, “Thanks.” The shortest thing he’s ever said, probably.

But then he’s back to talking. 

Then they’re back to working. 

And things are like that for a while. They’re a good team. Scotty starts barking at Keenser for climbing things—Keenser thinks this is some odd point of concern, though it isn’t phrased that way—and Scotty lifts Keenser up to things. It’s helpful. It’s sort of nice. Scotty even helps with his equations sometimes. 

Once, they’re working back to back on separate PADDs, sitting on the floor amongst a sea of shuttle parts, and Scotty says, “Why don’ yeh think of space as the thing that’s moving?” Keenser’s so surprised that he doesn’t say anything, and Scotty adds, “You know. Fer your transwarp equation.”

The next day, Keenser sends a request for a tribble—he needs something alive but innocuous to test on. Scotty suggested tribbles: harmless furballs, he says, that one of his old bosses had. 

Keenser finds that he doesn’t like Scotty talking about old bosses, but Keenser doesn’t say anything. Scotty never calls him anything but his name. Nothing like ‘sir’ or ‘master’. Keenser never makes him. But Keenser thinks they both know. It’s just the two of them on this whole giant station, so they’re only ever addressing each other directly. Keenser’s life becomes a note to Scotty. 

Three weeks in, Keenser finishes cleaning a heating duct. He’s covered in grime, and he heads for the shower—an unpleasant, heavy-duty space meant primarily for decontamination. He’s already undoing his belt as he steps inside, back leaning against the door to open it. 

Scotty’s under the spray against the far wall. There are two showerheads in either wall, the back sectioned off by a lowered tile area, with a single drain in the middle. The walls are old and dull.

Scotty’s new and bright: creamy. His short hair is slicked down against his forehead, hands up, bent at the elbows, rubbing liquid soap across the back of his neck. He’s completely naked. He’s sideways, so Keenser can see the curve of his spine and the round globes of his ass. Then he turns, nipples pebbled under the water and cock half-hard. It’s smaller than Keenser’s—humans are strangely proportioned. “What’re you lookin’ at?” Scotty asks, probably because Keenser’s abruptly stopped in his tracks, belt halfway out of the loops. He tells himself to straighten up. Most masters see their personal servants naked every day—he can handle once a month. 

He makes a ‘whurf’ sort of sound, walking over to the corner next to the tile. There are two benches in the middle of the room, wooden and rickety. There’re three towels on the left wall and one empty rack where a fourth towel should be, but isn’t. Scotty’s clothes are a mess on the bench. 

Keenser’s clothes join them. Keenser doesn’t quite feel self-conscious. Scotty’s said before that he’s never seen another Roylan. So he doesn’t know what he’s looking at. He goes back to showering, whistling some sort of foreign tune, most likely from his homeland. 

Keenser steps over to the other side of the wall, facing away. He glances up. He forgot to bring a box to stand on. This facility wasn’t made for him. ...Facility’s never are. 

He stands there staring at it for a minute, and then Scotty’s face appears above him, and Scotty’s reaching up to turn on the shower. “How hot would yeh like it?”

Keenser doesn’t say anything. If he turns around, he’ll have his face buried in Scotty’s ripe body. He can’t quite feel Scotty against him, but he’s aware that that could change with the slightest centimeter. Some of the water from Scotty’s hair and shoulders drips on him. The water comes out hot, and Keenser lets Scotty pick a temperature. Then Scotty starts whistling again and wanders back to his side. 

Keenser sets to washing himself. It takes a long time, because he’s got so many little grooves and ridges. There’s a soap dispenser in the wall, fortunately low enough for him to reach. As his knobby fingers press soap into awkward areas, his mind starts to wander to what it would be like if he made his servant wash him. But then he thinks he shouldn’t think of that. Because it makes him want to order it. And he’s pretty sure he could. Scotty would do it, too. He’s a hard worker with respect for authority. He’d complain, but he’d do it. And he’d look so good while he did.

Keenser avoids soaping up his cock until last. He doesn’t want it to harden under the attention coupled with the inevitable daydreams. Unlike humans, Roylans have more... equal... proportioning. His cock reaches three quarters of the way to his knees, and it’s fully ridged. The head of it is the smoothest part of Keenser’s body. It’s probably nothing next to how smooth _all_ of Scotty is. The two of them don’t talk to each other for a very long time, the only sounds being the angry pitter-patter of high-pressure water hitting the tiles. 

Right when Keenser runs out of other places to scrub, Scotty asks, “Is the temperature alright?” At being addressed, Keenser automatically turns sideways, hand around his shaft. 

Immediately, Scotty whistles. Face getting hot, Keenser drops his hold on his cock, but it only bounces in place, excited at the view of Scotty. Keenser keeps his eyes as high as possible. Scotty says, “That’s a big sucker!” And he points, as though Keenser doesn’t know what he has. 

For a minute, Keenser’s frozen. Then he gathers himself and turns around, back under the water. There’s nothing to say, so he doesn’t say anything. He wills Scotty to go back to humming and washing. For a few seconds, he thinks that’s what happened. 

But then Scotty says faux-casually in an awkward sort of voice, “You know... You’re not anything like I thought you would be...” In the pause, Keenser thinks of saying, ‘you either; I thought you were ale.’ “I mean, I know I’m not much of a looker, but when I heard I was gonna be all the way out here in the middle o’ nowhere, when you didn’t have anythin’ else, I thought for sure... bah.” And he cuts himself off with a strange sort of noise, going back to washing. 

So Keenser continues to wash his cock, glad Scotty’s shut up. Scotty’s voice makes it twitch, and that makes it difficult to clean the grooves right. He’s not really even thinking about what Scotty’s saying, although he’s fairly certain, given the context and Scotty’s bizarrely flustered tone, that Scotty’s saying he thought he’d be raped.

And of course, Scotty being Scotty, he starts up again. “O’ course, now it doesn’t seem so bad a thought, really. Stuck out here in the middle of a borin’, barren planet with nothin’ to do... o’ course a man’s gonna miss sex...”

When Keenser glances over his shoulder, Scotty’s glancing over his. 

Before Keenser can stop himself, his stupid mouth opens up and barks, “Sex.” And it’s just one word, but it comes out like an order. 

It hangs in the air between them like a tingling fog, and then Keenser gathers the muscle tension required to say instead, “Never mind.” And he turns back to the shower. His shower. They should stop this conversation. It’s not productive. They should’ve sent Keenser a Vulcan servant—someone less... _endearing_.

Scotty’s so endearing. 

He shows up a minute later next to Keenser’s nozzle. He puts a hand on Keenser’s shoulder and gives a little shove, the water still running. Keenser’s turned around and lets himself be pushed to sitting on the raised floor of the rest of the room, feet spread against the tile of the lowered shower. His cock is thick and fully erect, jutting proudly out into the air. 

And Scotty, wonderful, amazing Scotty, kneels down in front of him. Keenser doesn’t fully understand why, but he sees the look in Scotty’s eyes—it’s the same as when he touches himself at night and thinks Keenser can’t hear him and doesn’t steal glances. Keenser _does_. Keenser wanted to be that hand. He doesn’t know what Scotty’s going to do, but he trusts Scotty implicitly. 

Never one to disappoint, Scotty licks his pretty lips, mumbling, “That’s a monster, that one... not gonna fit in me wee mouth...” In his _mouth_. Keenser’s brows furrow. He’s never even heard of that before. 

But then Scotty licks the tip, and a delicious shiver runs straight down Keenser’s spine. Smacking his lips and nodding in approval, Scotty opens up and lowers his mouth down on the head of Keenser’s cock, the sight alone enough to make Keenser lose his breath. 

If Keenser thought Scotty’s skin was soft, that’s nothing compared to the plush, warm, moist inside of his mouth. His bright lips stretch around all of Keenser’s girth, slipping down it, remarkably gentle and supple. Scotty slides further and further until he’s nearly halfway down, and Keenser feels his tip bump against something—the back of Scotty’s throat? Scotty doesn’t seem to be able to get any further, but it doesn’t matter. It’s single handedly the most amazing thing Keenser’s ever felt in his whole life. He’s already breathing heavy, and his cock throbs in the tight confines around it. There’s no way he’s going to be able to last the Roylan average of two hours for sex. Even with Scotty only halfway, Keenser’s fairly certain he won’t make it past thirty minutes. 

Then Scotty is slowly pulling off, and Keenser makes a disappointed ‘hrff’ sound, still completely unable to move. It’s as though pleasure’s seized him solid, tensed him up and turned him into a statue. His hands are gripping the hard ledge tight, wanting to fist in Scotty’s hair, but worried he’ll break it. 

Scotty might be taller, but he’s still lovely and soft and fragile, not a spike or hard plate on his entire body. He gets to the end of Keenser’s cock and doesn’t quite pull off, tongue flicking over the edge. Keenser makes an ugly gasping sort of noise, feeling stupid but unable stop it. Scotty seems to smirk around his cock, and it’s way too sexy. 

Then Scotty’s sliding back down again. What he’s doing, Keenser has no idea. But Keenser _likes_ it. A lot. His eye holes start to close, and he forces them open, forces himself to stare at Scotty’s face. Scotty looks up at him, somehow still cocky and sassy and _Scotty_ , even being used like this. It occurs to Keenser suddenly that some poor fool—more than one, actually—fired this gem. Greater idiots, Keenser’s never heard of. Scotty’s his greatest treasure. 

Scotty’s a dream. He starts to move faster and faster, until he’s bobbing up and down on Keenser’s shaft, never quite getting more than halfway. But his fingers wrap around the base, and he squeezes lightly while he pistons himself on and off, fingering all Keenser’s ridges. Keenser’s being swamped in pleasure. He’s rocking a little, and it feels sort of like his hips are having a seizure. They jerk forward without his control. Scotty holds him, taking it. Every time Scotty pulls off, it leaves a wet trail, and when he goes back down, the ridges of Keenser’s cock visibly poke out of Scotty’s cheeks. It looks phenomenal, and Scotty uses his tongue the whole time: absolute rapture. 

Then Scotty _sucks_ , and Keenser’s sure he’s been blessed by some benevolent god. His face scrunches up with the pleasure that snakes up through his veins, and he stares at the way Scotty’s cheeks hollow out. The pressure is mind-blowing. He’d never even think to try that. Keenser’s making sounds he’s never heard before. His cock is pulsing in Scotty’s warm mouth, and Scotty sucks on it over and over again, still bobbing and licking. 

Keenser can’t take it. He grabs the back of Scotty’s head with his hands, and Scotty makes a choking sound. Keenser’s instantly swamped in guilt, but it feels too good to stop. Scotty doesn’t stop. He regains control and goes back to being fucking perfect. He squeezes tightly at the base. He sucks hard. His tongue goes wild. His lips are swollen from abuse. His spit feels so good. The soft walls of his mouth feel so good. His finger pads, smooth and nimble and warm, feel so good. Everything’s just...

Keenser makes a horrendous shriek, roaring loud enough for it to echo off the walls of the tiny room—the loudest sound he’s ever made in his life. He wants to warn Scotty, but he can’t; he’s too overrun with the feeling. The orgasm rips through his whole body, right down to his toes and his fingertips and the ridges of his head. He’s sure his skin is rippling. His cum explodes against the back of Scotty’s throat, and he doesn’t blame Scotty one bit for gagging and pulling off. 

That doesn’t stop Keenser from coming. Keenser’s hot seed sprays all over Scotty’s face and chest, drenching his chin and his hair and trickling down his front. Scotty’s managed to close his eyes in time, but his mouth is still hung open, and it fills up quickly, tongue sticking out and loaded up. Keenser’s cum is completely clear, and it shines across Scotty’s skin beautiful. Scotty’s never looked so gorgeous. Keenser finally stops coming a few minutes later, and then he’s a panting mess, watching Scotty pant just as hard and sit back in shock. 

Another few moments of this, and Scotty starts to swallow, smacking his lips and screwing up his face, “You didn’t tell me you’d come a bloody lake!”

Scotty didn’t tell Keenser he was going to do... whatever it was. Keenser’s too breathless to answer. He expects Scotty to scramble back to the shower and wash off, but instead Scotty just sits there, staring at him. 

Eventually, Keenser mumbles, “You’re wonderful.”

He thinks Scotty’s going to laugh at him, because Scotty goes completely blank faced. He’s right; Scotty does laugh. But Scotty smiles while he does it, announcing, “Thanks, _Sir._ ” He follows it up with a wink. It’s the most Keenser’s ever spoken to Scotty, and he meant it. 

It was irresponsible to leave the showers running. But he forgot about them, up until they abruptly stop working. Suddenly both faucets snap off, and both engineers glance up at the closest nozzle. Scotty swears loudly before whining, “Now how’m I gonna get this stuff off me?”

Keenser forgoes suggesting it never come off. It’ll harden if left on too long, and that wouldn’t be good for Scotty’s skin. Keenser hops off the ledge and wanders over, but the nozzle’s too high. 

So Scotty hikes Keenser up onto his shoulder, Keenser’s now-spent cock pressed against the back of Scotty’s head. He fiddles a bit with the showerhead, twisting it and adjusting some of the bolts. The water bursts back on, hitting poor Scotty in the face, who stumbles backwards, just barely managing to keep Keenser up. He bends down so Keenser can get off. 

They make a good team. 

Keenser helps wash Scotty off, and he tugs at Scotty’s cock like how Scotty tells him to. He’s worried he’ll hurt it, so he holds it as lightly as he can. Even fully erect, it’s so smooth against his rigid fingers. When it comes, Keenser deliberately steps out of the way—it’d take forever to clean cum out of his ridges. Scotty laughs. 

Scotty bends down to kiss him on the lips. It’s strange and exotic and gorgeous. Keenser holds Scotty by the neck, not wanting to let him pull away. Humans kiss too short. 

By the time they’re done the shower, they’re both wrinkling in different ways. 

They celebrate with scotch. 

They sleep in the same bunk, and it’s the warmest night Delta Vega’s ever had.


End file.
